Unraveled

Chapter 4 #2

The buck of my hips and arch of my back in response isn’t even a coherent thought but a reflex. I fight to ignore the blissful warmth between my thighs. This is just a natural reaction. I won’t succumb to his persuasion of pleasure.

Pleasure that’s unwelcome.

Pleasure that is still pleasure.

His tongue darts back in, wetting me, opening me up, manipulating me. My nerves ride a disloyal roller coaster. A repeated sequence. His tongue plunges in, then withdraws to slide up, to circle my clit, and to add pressure with a suck on it before moving back down and licking back into me.

“God.”

Was that me? Did I just moan that?

How is that possible? I shouldn’t find any pleasure in this. Shouldn’t feel the climax slowly building.

Yet I do.

I can’t focus on anything but the pleasure because his tongue just keeps moving: up, down, in, out, around and around. A tantalizing assault that leaves my head reeling and my body humming.

My muscles tighten as his fingers tighten their grip and his tongue laves more fervently. His panted breath disrupts the silence of the room. Even more disturbing? So do my stifled moans.

You can’t come, Lily.

You just can’t.

What does that say about you as a person? A woman?

Shut your body down. Fight the grip he’s holding on you.

But seconds stretch.

The warmth spreads.

My nerves ignite.

Because fuck, this feels so good.

My body detonates, splintering into a million pieces of jagged, violent pleasure.

I succumb. Not in bits and pieces but in one giant orgasm that hits like a tidal wave, pulling me under and drowning me.

My body remains taut, legs spread, muscles tense, which only serves to make my orgasm seem more intense, more explosive.

More traumatic—emotionally and physically.

His hands hold me as my muscles beg for a second, as they vibrate from the onslaught of sensation.

But then his lips are on my inner thigh. The press of a kiss I don’t want before I can feel them curve into a smile like a lover would.

The contradiction of the action hits me. The tenderness displayed in a situation so contrary makes it that much harder to process what just happened. What I just succumbed to and derived pleasure from.

Oh my God.

Oh my God.

What is wrong with me?

How can I find pleasure from this man holding me against my will? What kind of sick, fucked-up person am I? How can I even remotely be turned on?

The bile rises. I try to fight it, try to swallow it down.

My head becomes light and my breath shallow as my body becomes starved for the air it needs.

I begin gagging, coughing violently, trying to revolt against the object in my mouth.

I can’t dislodge it. I yank against my restraints without success and buck my body as I seek my next breath.

In an instant his hands are at my head. I feel them tug and manipulate something.

Peppermint. Focus on the peppermint.

Anything to calm myself but with the blitzkrieg of sensations and emotions hitting me, my head dizzies as his mouth brushes up against my ear.

“Bella, Bella, Bella,” he soothes with his deep timbre. “Calmare la mia bella. Breathe slowly.” His body is against mine—the fabric of his clothes rough against my sensitized nakedness. His hands frame my cheeks as panic claws its way up my throat. “Calm. Slow. Calm down.”

I need this gag out of my mouth.

I can’t breathe.

My head is fuzzy.

I shake my head back and forth, but he holds my jaw firm, his heated breath against my hair. “Do. Not. Scream. I will remove this, but if you scream, the consequences will make me go back on my word not to hurt you. It would be your fault then. Capisci? Understood?”

Darkness seeps at the edges of my mind, threatening to take over as I struggle to get enough oxygen.

“Say it, goddamn it!”

His voice jars me back to the present.

Yes.

Did I say that out loud?

C’mon, Lil. You need to speak. To try to.

His fingers squeeze harder at the edges of my jaw.

“Yes,” I garble out.

Within seconds the gag is off. I can’t suck in air fast enough. I choke on the greedy gulps. The tingling in my limbs begins to dissipate. The fuzziness in my head starts to clear.

In fact, it’s the clearest it’s been since sitting at the bar.

Creak.

He’s backed away to give me some space. Still there, his presence undeniable, but not on top of me.

Shout. Scream. Yell for help.

What if he has a gun? Or a knife? Clearly he’s capable of hurting me if he’s doing this.

Twenty-four hours.

A set time frame.

You can do this, Lily.

I don’t scream. I choose to comply.

I make the active choice to comply.

Everything about this situation is out of my control so I grab the one option he offers and choose.

Besides, the last thing I want is that damn gag back in my mouth.

I dart my tongue out to lick my dry, chapped lips and work my jaw back and forth. My ears pop from the motion.

“Why?” The lone syllable is a croaked rasp. It’s all I allow myself to say, fear of repercussions holding the rest of my accusations hostage.

His chuckle is soft, but I can hear the rumble in his chest and my goosebumps return. “Oh, my beautiful Lily,” he says causing my heart to thunder and my world to stop.

He knows my name.

I’ve been unconscious for some time. Does that mean he’s had time to go through my purse? To find my ID and learn my name?

But that means he’s also seen pictures of Anderson, my family, my boys.

Anderson.

The shame comes hot and quick. My husband knows my body better than anyone, so how can this person I just met, a man holding me against my will, bring me to orgasm so quickly? So thoroughly?

Oh my God.

I just let another man bring me to orgasm, in these horrific conditions, and . . . I took pleasure from it.

I’m a horrible person.

Emotions rage a civil war inside of me. They’re magnified by the idea that as I struggle with it, some man is standing somewhere in this room, staring at, admiring, my spread thighs and the arousal on my thighs that I can feel slowly drying in the cool air of the room.

“Mia bella Lily . . .” His finger presses down on the top of my right foot and trails a slow path up my shin, much the same way he did over my collarbone earlier.

It’s like this is his way to force me to be aware of his presence—every nerve ending, every muscle—as if they’re not already.

“Why?” His chuckle scrapes over my skin.

“Because sometimes a person knows just what another might need, even if they never utter the words. Your eyes speak truths your lips don’t.

You are gorgeous, no? This body of yours tempts me, taunts me .

. .”—he continues the ascent of his finger up my thigh at a lethargic pace—“. . . begs me to take it. And look,” he says as he slides his fingertip softly between my thighs.

My body stills. Tenses. Then he rubs his fingers up and back through my wetness—this time with more ease, with less—

The glove is gone.

This time his touch is his skin against mine. Intimate. Bare. The barrier I could fool myself with and say it kept this clinical is now gone. His groan has my body heating as he circles the entrance to my pussy—just so—before removing all touch.

My thready exhale fills the room. Then hitches as he rubs my own arousal on my lower lip.

“Do you smell what I do to you? Taste yourself.”

I freeze in fear. Such a hot request in my romance novels. Something I wanted of Anderson.

“Do. What. I. Ask,” he demands.

I dart my tongue out and lick my bottom lip. The sweet tang of myself hits my taste buds and tightens my nipples.

Traitor.

“You want me just as bad, no?” he says, slipping his finger between my thighs again before running it back over my lip. “Taste. You are drenched.”

The bed dips beside me as his hand returns to my jaw, his palm a necklace across my throat. His breath a feather across my lips as he leans closer.

My mind races. Thoughts, threats, prayers combine into a potent combination of resolve.

“Why you?” he murmurs seconds before his lips brush against mine.

I squirm. He squeezes harder. I stop.

But my mind is racing and my hands curl into fists in my restraints.

Come closer. Come closer, you fucker, try to kiss me with your tongue and I’ll bite it off.

“Ahhhh,” he sighs, amusement in the sound. He taps a finger against my curled hands. “The fighter in you returns, no? Why fight what deep down you know you want? I doubt your husband will ever fuck you like I will. I doubt he takes the time to make your body ache so much it hurts.”

Why? How does he know this?

A lucky guess about a lonely woman? A hunch when he saw the picture of my family in my wallet and wonders why I’m here alone?

The tip of his tongue traces the outline of my trembling lips. Not close enough to bite, but a physical example of his control.

He can probably assume what I’m thinking about biting his tongue if he passes it through my lips . . . and so he’s showing me it doesn’t matter.

He’s not afraid of me.

Another brush of his lips over mine.

“Does your husband know how turned on you are by being at my mercy? How your body craves to be violated, dominated, fucked hard, and used for my every whim?” He chuckles low and deep.

“Who?” I feign.

“Your husband. The one in the pictures in your wallet. Such a beautiful home. Such handsome boys. Your wallet gave all your secrets away so don’t play stupid, Lily.

Respect that I’m smarter than that.” Another trace of his finger over my bottom lip.

“Has he fucked every inch of your body like I plan to?”

My muscles tense, his threat causing my breath to catch, my mind visiting places I don’t want it to. Images flash of wants and desires too taboo in Anderson’s eyes, and I chastise myself for being turned on by this man’s words.

By my captor’s words.

Stop. Just . . . stop.

“You’re beautiful when you try and fight what you want. Because yes”—his lips move to my ear—“that is exactly what I plan to do. And if you don’t orgasm, if I don’t see you drenched and cum running down that sweet pussy of yours, then we’ll have to do it all again until you do.”

This is my captor? Daring me not to come or threatening to repeat it until I do?

Like . . .

Anger consumes me, but the most confusing part of it all is whom the anger is directed at. Not him. No, at me.

His words, his threat . . . turn me on, igniting something that I’ve wanted to beg Anderson for.

Dirty talk.

Provocation and domination.

Curiosity edged with a nervous excitement as we push limits.

It’s not the same, Lily. This man and what you want with Anderson are not the same.

In this room, with this man, there is no safety net. No safe word. No actual consent.

This isn’t you, Lily. It’s not normal to want a stranger—one who is holding her against her will—to fuck her how he’s promising.

Whatever he gave me is messing with my head. My reasoning. My logic.

Think of the boys. Think of our family. Hold on to anything that’s still yours.

“Ah, you fell quiet. It’s okay to want it. This. Me. Pleasure. The fight is all over your face. And the way your pussy dripped just for me is answer enough. You tasted it yourself.”

“Go to hell,” I grate out between my gritted teeth. If I give him my voice, I give him everything.

That laugh again. Amusement mingled with superiority rings through the room. “There’s that fight again, bella. Such a turn-on, but you forget, I already know how you react to me. How starved you are for what I have to give you.”

“No.”

A tsk falls from his lips. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to fuck you again. You’ll beg to suck my cock, to fuck your mouth. You’ll yearn to please me. To crave my touch. You’ll cry when I leave you to go back to your everyday life.”

I latch on to the image of my faceless captor leaving. Not the begging. Not the craving. Just the sounds of his retreating footsteps, the sound of the door closing, and him never coming back again.

My breath stumbles, betraying me. I hate myself for the way my body reacts to him even when I pretend I don’t.

His words . . . his threats, promises, and everything in between cause an intense, unfathomable ache to unfurl in my core.

Blood swells the tender flesh there, and even though I have this man in front of me holding me against my will, the oddest feeling comes over me.

I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to hurt me.

I have no basis for this belief, just my gut instinct, but in some fucked-up sense I trust him.

What does that say about me?

I divert my thoughts elsewhere. I don’t have the wherewithal to look closer at myself, a surefire way to fuck my head up even further.

But all I can think is that this man captured me.

He captured me and then brought me pleasure by licking me to orgasm.

He hasn’t even penetrated me yet. He could have thrust into me with complete disregard to my readiness or my pleasure, as I assumed would’ve happened, and gotten off.

But he didn’t.

Why wait? Why build me up like this? What game is he playing?

He hasn’t used me and tossed me aside how I’d have expected.

I shiver as the air conditioner kicks off, and I strain to hear the sounds of life outside of the room.

The music still plays gently in a room beyond.

Is that a honk from a car I hear in the distance?

My thoughts run wild again, my attention so haphazard that I welcome the distraction.

I hold on to that—the disorder, the confusion—so that I can lose focus, lose myself . . . so I can hold on to hope.

Maybe I’ll wake up in my hotel bed, late for breakfast, with nothing more than a hangover and a story I’ll never tell.

I sink into the thought.

He clears his throat.

And then the pain hits.